HD 'Undesirable Number One's Resolution' Mini2of3
by tigersilver
Summary: Um, evil-cliffie-fic. Say no more, no more. The 'two-fer' has Transfigured to a 'three-fer'. AU, EWE, Aurors, UST. Harry must choose a course of action. It's cold outside, baby. One more after this, BTB.


Author: **tigersilver**  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings/Summary: Um, evil-cliffie-fic. Say no more, no more. The 'two-fer' has Transfigured to a 'three-fer'. Gifting a few peeps with this one, I am: (the more the merrier, jah?) **majafelicitas** , **snow_flakeys** , **agnetha17** and **germankitty** [_My_, I know many, **many** 'kitties', I do. Is this a trend?] Happy, Merry, Prosperous and thanks so much for being here: Glomps~Tiger

**HD 'Undesirable No. One's Resolution'**

Wank, wank, wank.

Three solid years of wanking to Malfoy; _this_, Harry had down pat. Sporadic wanking, guilty thrills and spotty bits of pleasurable/painful torment previous to that.

Erotic dreams all throughout, which later led to additional wanking and some furtive exploration with vibrators, rubber nubbly things that the in-the-know called 'butt plugs' and a great deal of lube, conjured and Muggle, to date and apparently on-going. Wank, wank, wank: this was Harry's typical after-hours routine, and Merlin, wouldn't Draco Malfoy would be pleased as punch to know he'd effectively treed one rubbed-raw Harry Potter, ex-Boy and ex-childhood nemesis?

New Year's Eve _Eve_ had fueled a familiar campfire with bloody Muggle jet juice, though. Harry's wrist ached now, for twenty-four hours later he'd was wanking in his damned dreams, his cock not at all satisfied with the rather extensive shower session taken earlier in Harry's extremely dull evening. His head pounded something awful, too, as the doorbell had rung and wakened him from a fitful doze before the telly (rather, pealed out a sodding klaxon worthy of a Muggle lorry, really; Ron had thought that was funny when he Charmed it, the arse) a few moments shy of the witching hour.

Frankly, he was irked to be disturbed so rudely. A heretofore quiet and restful evening that Harry really needed after the startling events of his previous night out had been needlessly interrupted, and likely by some pranking Muggles, drunk as Aberforth's goats. Harry required rest, for he'd not managed a wink the night before. Malfoy had befuddled him to no end and he'd already been well on the path to acquiring a Hero-sized hangover. To be kissed literally speechless—_and_ groped _and_ essentially brought off like some randy deviant in a Ministry loo was…well, it was _something_. Harry just wasn't quite certain what that 'something' might be.

Good or bad, Draco Malfoy was Harry's partner at work. Which _was_ something more than the usual hill of beans, yes. Perhaps they should still be at odds, given all the _sturm-und-drang_ of their mutual pasts, but in reality they did their business in a quite normal, not particularly combative manner, and had, for several years now. Malfoy seemed quite a bit more relaxed after the War ended and even decently behaved, as far as stuck-up gits went. His randomly discovered and very ready sense of humour (which Harry had long suspected existed but never before benefitted from, prior to being assigned Malfoy's partner by a mum, bland as porridge Dawlish) was dry as toast scrapings for the most part, until the sod had one of those sudden, hilarious turns of silly to which he was prone. Harry rather thought it was exactly one of those which provided the world not only with the memorable tune 'Weasley Is Our King' but also the 'Potter Stinks!' Badges. Otherwise, Malfoy was polite as could be with Harry and the other Ministry staff, including the Muggleborns and the Squibs—Merlin, even ex-Hufflepuffs were no exception—and that last point was the very thing that allowed Harry to finally justify all his endless wanking.

For, Harry reasoned, if Malfoy weren't really the utter prick he so often came across as, then Harry supposed it was alright, really, to fantasize rather religiously about him. Took some of the verboten 'bad boy', 'forbidden fruit' fun straight out of the whole process, certainly, but Harry's strong sense of justice was no longer in a state of permanent outrage at his poor right hand, the one which did all the actual jerk work. Rather a relief for him, to have his body at last in some sort of _entente_ with his moral compass, especially after so long a time spent spinning in what Harry ruefully thought of as the 'wank-angst cycle'—wore one out, that, something fierce. Brooding after pulling one out over the heights of his uber-angst on being stuck so fast on damned _Malfoy_, of all people, along with everything else he'd had piled on his plate (Voldie, Sirius, _puberty_), had not made Harry a happy Boy in his Hogwarts years, _no_.

No, the current situation was much more comfortable. Harry had grown nicely accustomed to it: by day, he and Malfoy sorted out, apprehended, charged and then filed endless paperwork on common-garden criminals. By night, Harry yoinked his eager rod merrily to the image of his very own personal poster Wizard for the _PlayWitch International 'Sizzling Knickers'™ Edition_.

It was sodding brilliant, Harry concluded. Nice and cleanly compartmented, and he could successfully ignore any odd feelings that might pop up on the subject of Malfoy. Had done so for an impressive three years, actually—until just yesterday evening, the thirtieth. The 'Eve Eve', as Malfoy named it, his thin upper lip curled in a laugh-sneer.

Yesterday…erm, yes-that. _That _was a shock to ace them all. Harry was staggering yet, mentally. Hell—emotionally, too. Not once had he ever allowed to cross his mind the heretical thought that his fantasy life might be a mutual thing; not once, not in three solid years, even though Malfoy had mellowed.

Erm, alright. That wasn't exactly true. Perhaps once or twice Harry had, but not much and not often. He was a realist, after all. No way around it; Malfoy had hated him for eons and then Harry happened to have waltzed in and saved him from a fiery death. And, before that, Malfoy had done the same for Harry, of course (excepting the fiery death aspect, but Bellatrix Lestrange was arguably as bad as, if not worse), so in an odd, irregular way they were even.

Squared up. And that was _it_—nothing more to be said about it, other than Draco Malfoy's appearance pushed all Harry Potter's 'hot' buttons like mad. But, logically (and this was the curious thing), Voldemort's death and Malfoy's subsequent partnering with Harry in the Aurors could've only have raised the temperature of his feelings of chill hatred for Harry to a grudging lukewarm acceptance, at most. They'd fetched up as co-workers, that's all, via happenstance. Harry had absolutely no expectations of anything more, ever. He was so clearly not Malfoy's cup of tea.

Honestly, he wasn't quite certain what precisely constituted Malfoy's preferred brew at this juncture of their lives. As far as he knew, the git was always available for an afterhours drink and no one at the Ministry ever mentioned seeing Malfoy about with someone socially on his off-days. Of course, there were Ministry events and an escort was required for those, and Malfoy always toted Pansy Parkinson on his elegant arm. But Pansy, though she wasn't as awful as Harry had once thought she'd be, didn't seem to be romantically involved with Malfoy—not that Harry had paid close attention. Oh, no. Of course not.

He'd only been curious, that's it. Malfoy _was_ his partner and it was only polite to notice those sorts of things when it came to one's partner. He'd clued in on that through Malfoy's own actions, actually. Malfoy would always enquire as to Harry's standing dates with Ginny to those horrid official occasions—back when he and she were still together-and from that, Harry rather gathered it was the done thing to do. So he'd done the same, politely.

"How was your weekend, Malfoy?' he'd ask gamely, on a Monday, and Malfoy would reply evasively. Or, for variety, perhaps he'd slip in a casual, 'Seeing anyone new this weekend, Malfoy?' and Malfoy would then adroitly change the subject to something completely different. A slippery fish, that Malfoy. Harry knew as much now about his personal life as he had three years previous, which amounted to nil. And Malfoy, for all _his_ eager interest in Harry's doings, seemed to go well out of his way to maintain his intriguing silence.

_Slytherins_! Harry had scoffed to himself, though it left him intensely curious. Always not giving anything away for free, those sly Snakes, not even casually. It was very frustrating, as he'd come to genuinely like the close-mouthed git over the years and it felt damned off, not knowing a sodding thing about his life outside work. Well…other than Malfoy was always available whenever the Aurors went out as a group and, more often than not, the same again when it was just him and Harry catching that pint after a long day at the office.

Intensely curious and wanking religiously, then. Till Malfoy molested him, unexpectedly.

Add _befuddled_, _perplexed_ and _dangerously horny_ to the Potion, and there was one Harry Potter, alone on New Year's Eve and deep in the act of convincing himself he wanted it that way. For Malfoy, the twirp, had snogged him nearly senseless, jerked him to a shouting orgasm in a little-used grey painted Ministry loo and then fucking well done the bunk right after, the gormless, gutless git.

Bailed, the bastard had. And not a peep from him since. Harry was incensed, as only an ex-Gryffindor, ex-Boy Hero could be. He found that his never-quite-forgotten hatred for Malfoy was still readily at hand as required, so he threw that into the mix, too, which left Harry quite, quite the volatile mess. Thus he stewed at a fine simmer, waiting for the coming Monday, when he could finally confront the bastard arse and force a few pertinent facts from him. And wanked religiously, as there was suddenly a fount of new material to bolster up his previous lurid fantasies.

Or at least ask the questions, Harry figured. Knowing Malfoy, though, he'd find himself discussing the Cannons-Kestrals match and be thoroughly tangentialed, if that was even a verb.

Then his sodding doorbell sounded like the final foghorn blast of the Titanic at just two minutes to the hour and Harry, sleepy and sporting a raging stiffie, had to answer it—only to find no one there.

"Sodding little pricks!" he swore viciously, narrowing his eyes behind his fingerprinted spectacles. "Ow! What in the bloody Hades—oh! What's it?"

Bottle. Box. Envelopes—two of them. A matched pair of crystal champagne flutes, engraved and wound about with festive silvery ribbons. All of that occupied his doorstep, though the absentee gifter did not.

He checked it, naturally, the stuff. Wasn't an Auror for nothing, though that prick of skiving twat would twit him for being sloppy, sometimes. All was clear, so he gathered it all up in his arms, nearly losing his sleep pants in the process, and retreated back into his mercifully quiet anteroom to sort it out.

He opened the first letter warily. 'Dear Potter,' he read, eyes bleary, slumping back against the wall, "excepting you're not at all dear to me, as I hate you!'

"Great, super," Harry mumbled, and dropped it, letting it flutter to the floor. "He's schizo, the prat. I've got a looney for a partner. Just sodding peachy."

Feeling a bit jacked, and still chilled and tired, he tore open the other, expecting more of the same. Scanned down to the last line impatiently ('Please just open the fucking door ~Draco') and then gasped aloud, nearly dropping the champagne bottle he'd wedged absentmindedly under one arm.

"Harry' and 'Draco', the flutes he'd set floating read. '2011 and ever after', they promised faithfully, when he glanced at them, beyond bewildered. And this—this amazing letter; this unexpected, bolt-out-of-the-blue letter from Malfoy of all people—what?

'Dear Harry,' it began, and Harry slid down the wall, knees gone. 'Dear'? Since when had that happened?

'Long time coming'; oh, well, yes. Harry knew all about _that_. Long time wanking, definitely, on _his_ part.

'Like something more—body, mind, soul.'

"No fucking way!" Harry swore at the parchment, shaking it furiously. "Just—just no way did you—_fucking Malfoy_!"

'I need it. Makes me burn, Harry.'

"Nggh!"

'The door. Open the door, Harry. Please just open the fucking door.'

Malfoy was quite correct in his assumption—Harry did read it a second time, slowly, his lips moving. He had to; his brain couldn't quite parse it all without the reassuring sound of his own voice muttering, reading aloud.

'The door, Harry. Please.'

Compelled-because Malfoy was waiting, waiting-Harry got to his feet, leaving his New Year's gifts scattered behind him. He'd not even bothered with the box. No need. Malfoy was right _there_, waiting, on the other side of Door Number One. Not a lady, not a Tiger, but Malfoy.

Harry placed his wand hand on the knob, and fancied he could hear the sound of Malfoy breathing.

Twisted. Firmly, decisively, just as he'd flown his broom. The lock snicked.

Hesitated. As Draco Malfoy had, when Bellatrix had hauled Harry's swollen face back to show him and Draco had only murmured nothings. Sweet, sweet _nothings_. Harry had loved him, even then.

…And opened the blasted door.

_TBC…_


End file.
